


saw your face (heard your name)

by rebelantix



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gay Bar, Gay Panic, Multi, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelantix/pseuds/rebelantix
Summary: Hana Song is a known professional gamer with a taste for independence. After backing out of a fame-induced relationship with a bang, Hana sneaks her way into a gay bar to stir up some drama. The young gamer gets more than she bargained for, met with a tall, dark, and handsome stranger named Fareeha Amari. After their meeting, Hana has a slew of questions about herself that she's afraid she can't answer.





	saw your face (heard your name)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! I've had this idea in my head for a while; yes, Hana is underage here, there will be consensual sex involved. I urge you to reread that word, consensual.
> 
> Teenagers have sex, that's how it is, it's ignorant to think that it doesn't exist. I'm trying to make this as real as I can as well.
> 
> Stay tuned, I think you'll like the next chapter as well.

A bat of her eyelashes, a pout puffing on her lips, Hana didn’t need to slip the faux ID out of her back pocket to get into the nightclub. The bouncer smiles, touches her arm, calls her  _ ‘baby’  _ in poorly-pronounced Mandarin; she’s not even  _ Chinese.  _

He whips out a small notebook with red stitching on the cover, presumably for her to scrawl her number in.

Once she’s sure he doesn’t recognize her, she takes the pen jutting from his clenched fist, follows the vein in his arm, pulls her eyes away to look at the scraggly blond hairs sprouting from his chin. With scratchy writing, she inks her call ID onto a blank line;  _ 206-569-5829.  _

After a smack on the ass and a feigned astonished giggle on her part, Hana was in.

Getting what she wanted was so…  _ easy _ with white boys; thought she despised the feeling of objectification, the premise that she was sexy solely because of her ethnicity, the way their eyes roamed over her body and the awkward lumps in their shorts… she had to take advantage of the racists and their disgusting fetish every so often. Even though it felt wrong to indulge them and let them live a fantasy, though she wanted to lash out, she would get farther with flirting rather than aggression, so an old friend taught her.

_ “Let the caucasians live in blissful ignorance for now, let them continue treating everyone different from them like furniture as we rise up. Here,  _ dooman,  _ give them this number…” _

Now, so many years later, the thought of her admirers calling the number she’d written, the disappointment on their faces when they’d discovered her trick, that was a victory in itself.

With the bass rising to prevalence in her chest and the shouts of rambunctious partygoers growing ever louder, her acidic daydreams are quick to disappear.

Hana snaps a quick selfie at her most flattering angle (camera pointed down, chin tipped up and slightly to the right), sure to get the flashing strobes in frame. 

Once satisfied with her product, Hana switches to her main social networking app. She taps on the most recent photo, a tasteful picture of the nightclub’s purple and green neon sign had garnered about a quarter-million favorites in the past fifteen minutes. 

Not bad for a late-night post, even if the numbers didn’t meet the entire scope of her fanbase. Nevertheless,  _ he  _ would see it. 

Deft, skilled fingers type out a witty caption within a flurry of rainbow hearts and kissmark emoticons. On a deep inhale, she hits the ‘post’ button before stowing her phone away into her back pocket. Within seconds, it begins to buzz with the bustle of her fans. 

Before Hana can smugly claim her victory and cockily flounce onto the dance floor, an uncomfortably tight arm snares her waist. A prominently crooked schnoz separate from the arm pokes dangerously close to her own, accompanied by a pair of eyes colored much like excrement.

“Hana Song, right? Been following your feed… Thought we’d find you here.” The guy invading her personal space crows, in a poor attempt at a ‘seductive’ tone. His hands are creeping a little too close to sexual harassment, and the bulging pimple on his chin isn’t making this encounter any more enjoyable.

“You might be able to sneak past everyone else, but not us. We’re your biggest fans,” Jack-Nose interjects, pressing his cracked, dry lips to her cheek a split-second too long for her liking. Rage storms into Hana’s chest with a lovely, burning flame. 

“That would be me, yes, and while I’m truly flattered, I came here to meet someone.”

“Yeah, luv? What’s his name?”

_ Huh, shit. Any male name other than  _ his  _ is going to garner a PR nightmare…. _ She mulls, maintaining her coy smile and demure expression.  _ Between this and the photos, they have their work cut out for them. _

Just as she’s about to answer, Hana feels a sure arm slide between her and the ‘fans’ hanging from her hips.

“Ah,  _ habibti.  _ There you are.”

The hair on the back of Hana’s neck stands on end as she prepares to raise her fists, but the feminine-leaning voice sets her at ease. She turns her eyes towards her savior.

Her lifeboat is a woman, an extremely  _ handsome  _ one at that, with a proud jawline and dark, surveilling eyes. An aura of confidence envelopes the air about her, joined with a comforting scent toying with Hana’s nose, tinged with a spice she can’t quite name but  _ definitely  _ enjoys. A voice in the back of her head urges her to relax, allowing her shoulders to sink into the warmth now holding her.

“I was looking for you. Who are these young gentlemen?”

“Straight boys lurking around our club, trying to trap what isn’t theirs.”

The taller woman seems stunned for a shred of a moment - Hana can’t tell from what - before her lips divide into a modest, knowing smile. “Allow me to alert the bouncer then,  _ qalbi.  _ Wait here.”

The boys are off as the word  _ bouncer  _ leaves her lips, disappearing into the crowd, fear trailing behind them. As the older woman relishes in her triumph, Hana turns to better study her rescuer; the lines of her face are beautifully weathered despite the interruptions of old scars, her skin an even tone of finely-ground cinnamon. The glint of gold tightly binding braided locks of the woman’s hair piques the gamer’s interest, but less so than the tattoo lining her right eye.

“Don’t stare for too long, or I’ll believe you are actually fond of me.”

The comment is well-meaning, the chuckle playful. A soothing, however uncomfortable heat coils Hana’s belly, spreads across the pale ridge of her cheeks before she gathers her wits. “I’m just not used to people as good-looking as yourself coming to my rescue. Is that…”

She points upward towards the marking on the woman’s eye. With a nervous squeak Hana hopes is concealed by the music downstairs, she realizes she’s still within the circle of her savior’s arms when the scent of worn leather tickles her nose, and tries to elegantly back out of the embrace; she’s scared of becoming a demure stereotype in the face of this attractive individual. Luckily, the woman seems to understand, and gracefully withdraws, taking a step backward. 

The action was simple, but it nonetheless helped put the young gamer at ease in this strange, new place. The nightclub she’d chosen for tonight’s escapade is different in that it isn’t necessarily meant for… straight people. 

It’s not that Hana identifies as homosexual, no, of course not! This adventure was merely to stir the embers of her fans, get them guessing about her, pull new and fresh-faced individuals into her brand. Diversity and all that...

“My eyes are here,  _ habibti.  _ And yes, my tattoo is real.”

Hana tosses her head to bring herself back to reality. She shoots the woman a half-smile, gives a soft nod. “That’s so cool! I don’t think I could ever get a tattoo on my face… surely someone so brave has a name?”

If the woman is phased by Hana’s boldness, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she quirks an eyebrow, raises her hand to fluidly tuck one of her braids behind her ear. Hana isn’t used to being so nervous, especially in situations like these. In fact, she’s usually got the upper hand all to herself… “My name is Fareeha.”

The Korean has to swallow a few times to banish the dryness in her throat. There’s an accent that twists in and out of Fareeha’s voice, one she didn’t notice before, and it makes her heart jump.  

“Hana, Hana Song.” 

Fareeha’s quirked brow falls back into place. She nods, offers her arm for Hana to snake hers through. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Song.”

Hana squints, but does as her body wills her to do. She cups her hand around Fareeha’s suit sleeve, pleasantly greeted by the firm muscle fitting snugly against her palm. She shifts her eyes upward to glance at her escort, the strong contour of her jaw and the endless well of confidence her aura exudes. As they migrate downstairs, the music crescendos yet again.

Fareeha doesn’t seem much of a dancer; it doesn’t take long for Hana to realize that she’s being lead to the bar across the dancefloor. The gamer thinks that she has enough time to form a plan - it would be disastrous for an older fan to see her drinking, get proof, post it, she doesn’t  _ condone  _ that sort of thing amongst her younger fans - but there is no obstructed path wherever Fareeha’s leather-booted foot may stride. The crowd parts for her in a jagged rendition of the Red Sea parting for Moses.

Hana feels the hot grip of dread begin at the base of her back. Fareeha seems to notice the shift in her posture. “Easy,  _ habibti.  _ I know you aren’t old enough to drink, much less be in this building.”

She blinks, once, twice, three times;  _ how? _

The older woman laughs with a gentle voice, and despite the background noise Hana hears her clearly.  _ Did I say that aloud? _

Her heart kicks up into a rhythmic thud. She wants to hear that laugh again.

Fareeha gestures to a velvet barstool for Hana to sit on. She has to stand up on her toes to reach the seat. She’s embarrassed for a moment, wondering if Fareeha is going to smirk at her struggling, but her escort is occupied with claiming her own stool and waving down the bartender. 

When Hana situates herself properly, she takes subtle glances at her savior’s form. The older woman sits a bit open-legged, similar to a brash young man showing off the family goods, with the heels of her boots balanced precariously on the stoolbar. Fareeha doesn’t slouch like most of the bargoers down the line, yet her back isn’t rod-straight either, she’s comfortable and her posture reflects that.  _ She has every right to be confident, she looks amazing in that leather jacket... _

“Whiskey on the rocks for me, a tonic and citrus for the lady.” Fareeha glances to Hana for confirmation, but the girl is much too enamored with how her escort’s irises catch in the lowlight. They’re a moderate brown, Hana believes there’s a whole slew of colors hidden within, prominent only when the sunlight strikes them. There’s a sparkle in her eyes too, a shining of something deeper. “Yes, that’s fine.”

Fareeha nods to the tender. Hana begins to pat down the front of her shorts for her wallet.

_ Oh, shit. _

“Drink’s on me,” comes the heralded phrase, delivered with a note of finality, almost asking Hana to argue back. Her aura claims that no matter how hard the latter protests or how sweetly she asks, Fareeha would have no part of it. Hana’s pride diminishes, she can’t argue, she doesn’t even have her card on her! Of course, there’s a reason for that. She didn’t think she’d be drinking tonight.

The tender slides their drinks to the pair, noting their total, before scuffling off to tend more rowdy, impatient patrons, rudely waving their money and snapping their fingers in his direction.

“How old are you anyways?”

Hana circles her finger around the glass, finding interest in the soft orange hue of her drink. She debates, back and forth with herself, if she should lie to this stranger. Fareeha doesn’t seem like the type to take bullshit, and lying would likely leave her alone at the bar for the rest of the night. The skittish, predatory ‘fans; creeping up around her again affirms her decision  _ not  _ to lie. 

“I’m seventeen,” Hana says, as quietly as she can speaking over the music. Fareeha grins, swigs her drink. 

“Nailed it.”

The gamer pouts, playfully glares at the tall stranger, before taking a swallow of the citrus and tonic. It’s a bit bitter, though it’s pleasantly balanced with a mix of sour and sweet flavors. The surprise shows in her face, apparently, as she hears Fareeha’s earthen laugh once again. The drink slides down her throat warmly, mimicking the aching blush spreading through her cheeks. She feels the woman’s gaze on her, sending chills up her spine and settling across her shoulders. “I’m twenty-two.”

It’s not long before they finish their drinks, sitting in a silence that oddly doesn’t make Hana uncomfortable. It’s chance, when she catches the time displayed on a bar clock.  _ 1:43.  _

“Fifteen minutes ‘til last call,” Fareeha says absently, also looking at the clock, standing from her stool and adjusting her jacket. “I should be heading out.”

Hana’s heart falls a bit, her eyebrows pinch together in disdain. “You’re not driving, are you?”

“Ah, no  _ qalbi. _ My residence isn’t far from here.”

Fareeha quiets for a second, tilting her head minisculely to the left. In a low, smooth tone, she asks, “What about yourself?”

Hana doesn’t know how to answer. The older woman seems shocked at her own voice, clearing her throat loudly before gesturing to the stairs on the other side of the dancefloor. Pairs of drunks grind on one another, lean back into each other’s arms with dreamy expressions painted on their faces. “Excuse that, it was forward of me. I’ll walk you out.”

The path Fareeha forges isn’t as clear this time, as women of varying ages bump into her space to offer a dance or a drink or a one night stand. She handles it all the same - with a soft grin, and a “Perhaps next time, darling.” After the fourth or fifth time, Hana takes her escort’s arm firmly. She catches the look flashed her way, a smirk from Fareeha with a quirked eyebrow.  _ It’s only for her sake,  _ she tries to convince herself, though there’s a bit of jealousy creeping in the back of her head.

The two ascend the stairs, exit the club, there’s not a lot of people waiting in line anymore, just a gaggle of girls that squabble when they pass by in the direction to Hana’s home.

“Mm, hey cookie! Let me show you what white girls can do!”

Hana’s intestines churn with a burning flame, the same one that she felt early on in the night. She’s about to turn on her heel, snap back at the group, but the firm grip Fareeha imposes on her arm limits her movement. The older woman is pinching the bridge of her nose when Hana looks upon her again, appearing to have an upset headache. She sighs out a breath, before acknowledging the younger girl with an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry. That seems to happen a lot.”

“I understand that more than I should,” Hana laughs, becoming nervous now, attempting to disrupt the anxiety replacing the rage in her belly. They walk together for a while, arm-in-arm and sweetly silent, Fareeha studiously examining their surroundings with sharp eyes while Hana does the same with her escort. She knows now the dreamy feeling the dancers were entranced by, it just took the right partner for her to experience it.

“I can make it from here.” Hana announces finally, bringing a hand up to run through her hair. “Thanks for saving me from those creeps.”

“What can I say, I can’t stand to see a pretty girl in trouble.”

There’s the heat again, racing up her back and flooding the prominent points of her face. She squints at Fareeha, crosses her arms, to which the older woman reacts with raised hands and that  _ perfect  _ chuckle. “Alright, alright. You’re very welcome.”

Hana’s not sure what to do with her hands.

She plants her palms on Fareeha’s shoulders, lightly gripping the leather and standing on her toes to reach the woman’s cheek. She whispers a string of numbers, presses her lips to the elegant tattoo beneath a blazing eye when she’s finished, allows her hands to linger for a second longer before departing.

 

Later, in the soundproof confines of her room, Hana is finally able to weigh the consequences of her actions.

Her phone was ringing with hundreds of notifications, calls from PR, it annoyed her to the point she turned her phone off completely. Posting those photos was a horrible decision and she knew that now, it was a stupid action taken in a spur-of-the-moment emotional type of garbage that she couldn’t think all the way through on. Her dads were going to kill her.

She’d gone to the club to get her mind off of  _ him,  _ to rile him up, to stir the pot, but she’d ended up with a load of consequences she couldn’t shoulder alone and an indulgence of the side she’d been suppressing for so long, for  _ too  _ long. 

It was a gamble.

A gamble Hana took.

A gamble Hana lost.

She didn’t sleep that night. She lied awake, staring at her powerless phone, asking herself if Fareeha would give her a second thought.


End file.
